


Long Day

by apple_pi



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Hand Job, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just sits, arms loose around Rodney, fingers tracing the line of skin where Rodney's t-shirt has ridden up in the back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Day

When Rodney closes the door behind himself John's ears pop. He doesn't move; keeps his bare feet propped on the coffee table. Okay, the crate that he's using as a coffee table, because apparently the Ancients didn't have coffee tables (or didn't leave them behind), and John's always felt a little weird about asking for things like coffee tables and floor lamps from the _Daedalus_, even if his new(ish) quarters are twice as big as the old ones.

"Good seal," John says. "You hungry?"

"Have we met?" Rodney says, but he ignores the desk drawer full of chips and crackers and the occasional Powerbar and clambers onto John, straddling him. He's heavy; John grunts a little and leans, stretches his right arm out to place his evening beer (John really likes _Daedalus_ runs) onto the crate before Rodney's head thunks to his shoulder.

John just sits, then, arms loose around Rodney, fingers tracing the line of skin where Rodney's t-shirt has ridden up in the back.

"Bad day?" John ventures after a while.

Rodney's nose digs into his neck briefly, and his hands slide up John's sides. "Yes. No. Tired."

"Hm." John's head tilts sideways until his cheek is against Rodney's hair. "I could sleep." It's an understatement of ridiculous proportions - the last twenty-six hours have been hellish, but at least they're both clean and nobody died - and Rodney snorts into his shoulder and subsides again into quiet breathing until John's almost dozing, soothed by Rodney's weight and warmth and the half-beer John managed before Rodney came in. When Rodney speaks again, it startles John a little, and he opens his eyes, looking sightlessly at the far wall.

"Tired but horny," Rodney says. His mouth is warm against John's neck - lazy kisses that make John shiver. "Orgasm first, then sleep."

"Okay." John tips his head the other way, giving Rodney more room, and runs his hands up Rodney's back. "We're too dressed," he points out, and Rodney sucks a gentle hickey onto his collarbone and then climbs off. They strip and Rodney gets right back onto him, sitting back a little further so his half-hard cock is nudging John's.

"You do the work," Rodney says, looking down; his hands are on John's shoulders, warm and uncharacteristically still.

John sighs, but he wraps one hand around both of them, pulling a few times, watching their cocks lengthen, thicken, harden. "Lick," he says, lifting his palm to Rodney's mouth.

Rodney rolls his eyes, then holds John's hand in place and _licks_, broad wet strokes across the palm, sucking John's fingers into his mouth one at a time, eyes fixed on John's, glinting wicked blue as he rocks in John's lap, rubbing their dicks together until they're both fully hard, stiff shafts bumping clumsily.

"Christ," John says, laughter rough under his voice. He uses his dry hand to push Rodney back slightly to get a good angle again and grips their cocks in his slick palm, wet fingers. He's so tired, and so is Rodney; below the laughter and arousal waits the lazy, weary comfort of ignoring rules and better judgment and falling asleep squashed together in John's small bed, and soon. So John makes it fast and efficient and sweet: long, quick strokes with a tight twist at the top, the heads of their cocks squeezed together. Rodney's hands flex on his shoulders; his face is down-turned, lashes lowered as he watches, breath hitching as he shoves forward just a little. Precome makes everything wetter, stickier; it's mostly Rodney, but it slips down over John's cock, too, sharp-scented and addictive.

"Oh," Rodney gasps, "harder - oh," and he jerks, clutches John's shoulders, comes in thick, ropy pulses over John's hand and dick. John glances up from their cocks to see Rodney's slack mouth, closed eyes, the high flush across his cheekbones. That's enough - that and the warm, slippery feel of Rodney's come between his fingers, over his cock - and John sucks in a shuddering breath and comes, too.

Rodney stays where he is for a moment; when he opens his eyes he blinks blearily at John. "Mmm," he says, and John lets his head fall back against the sofa cushions.

"Mm. Get my shirt," he says. Rodney groans and winces and climbs off John, bending for a discarded t-shirt and swiping gently at first himself, then John. They both put boxers on before settling uneasily in the narrow bed.

"We're too old for this twin bed shit," John mumbles, trying to get his arm into a position where it won't be cold and dead come morning.

Rodney flops over him. "You won't even ask for a goddamn coffee table," he says. His hair is in John's nose, and John turns his head slightly away. "I don't see you asking for a double bed anytime soon."

"You ask for one," John says, and Rodney makes a noise of some kind and then he's gone: steady huffing breaths over John's chest. John lies awake for a minute or three (his arm is already tingling, going numb) and then follows Rodney into sleep.


End file.
